Fitzwilliam Darcy Meets Thorin Oakenshield
by Lillianpost
Summary: Fitzwilliam Darcy is in a pickle. His unrequited love for Elizabeth Bennett preys on his mind until he unwittingly asks for help from above. Above answers by dumping Thorin Oakenshield into a clump of nearby holly bushes. Man meets dwarf who shows him what is most important in life. Darcy, Thorin, and Elizabeth Bennet. No slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Allow me to introduce myself to the Pride and Prejudice fandom. I am Lillianpost and a Hobbit fanfic writer. However, P &P was my first taste of fanfiction, and this site and the Republic of Pemberley are wonderful sources of fine writing that I enjoy. I was reading P&P fiction lately when this deliciously sneaky idea burrowed into my brain and commanded me to put fingers to keyboard. I wondered if I have to put this in the crossover section since there isn't one listed on this site. Am I a universe of one or am I doing something wrong? If I must delete the story and repost, let me know. I've never done this before.**

 **Cheers,**

 **Lillianpost**

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 **Chapter 1**

Fitzwilliam Darcy walked through the woods of his estate on a fine, early fall afternoon, not at all distressed by the broken wheel of his light phaeton. He would have the rut in the road, which formed after an especially heavy rain, repaired as soon as may be and in the meantime enjoy a cool stroll past glossy holly bushes and artfully-kept, yew hedges. He could have sent the nearby tenant farmer to the stables while he waited with his horses, but Darcy felt the need for a lengthy walk and decided to retrieve help himself. Elizabeth Bennet was on his mind, and thoughts of her required a lengthy walk.

 _Blast! When isn't she on my mind? I must overcome this! I must!_

Letting his hand drift through a tall stand of glass, he pulled out a stalk and began chewing on the soft tip, returning to a boyhood habit that he employed whenever he was on edge or needed to think through a tangle of thoughts or emotions. No, not emotions. He strove to keep those under good regulation but lately without success. Her words came back to him about his selfish disdain for the feelings of others, and he threw up his hands and tossed the stalk away. Winning her affection seemed impossible but never more did he want it, and yet he had not a single clue of how to go about the business.

"Dear God, how— _how!_ —do I accomplish this?" he pleaded to the clouds.

A bright flash in the otherwise mild sky startled him out of his miserable thoughts, and a loud thump followed near or in a grouping of large holly bushes situated on a rise next to him. What came after was a series of incomprehensible words strung together in what were almost certainly curses bellowed in a deep, male voice. Darcy judged his brogue to come from the northern counties, but he couldn't be certain. He was sure though that the voice did not belong to anyone associated with Pemberley. He listened closely to the man grumbling and struggling to extricate himself from the prickly leaves. He stepped closer and the muttering stopped. A vagrant? A _poacher?_ Darcy's trusted gamesmen had chased several of them off last year, and all had been quiet since. He considered his options, bristling at some stranger trespassing on his property, but once again Elizabeth's words to amend his manners intruded, and he decided to withhold judgment for the present and be hospitable if possible. It wouldn't do to threaten a lost traveler. Besides, he kept a pair of small pistols on his person when he traveled beyond the environs of his estate, and at present whomever it was could do him no harm, caught fast as he was between holly branches, so Darcy felt it safe to approach.

"I say, are you hurt? Do you require assistance?" The rustling stopped, but the slide of steel from a scabbard was unmistakable, and with several deft slices, Pemberley's holly bushes were neatly trimmed by three feet. In the middle of them looking down on Darcy stood a figure that had materialized out of medieval history, although he conceded a fantastical element in the man's dress or rather garb. Perhaps the gentleman was attached to the group of Shakespearean players that was currently performing in Lambton, although he couldn't imagine how he came to be so lost. He certainly looked the part of King Lear or Hamlet's Uncle Claudius though, and Darcy spared a moment to idly admire the man's heavy robes with wolf-pelt shoulders and gleaming brigandine overlaying a fine, royal-blue tunic. His costume was well put together, and Darcy made a note to see the company's production while it was in town. The stranger evidently took his craft seriously, and Darcy relaxed his stance.

 _Georgiana would enjoy an outing of this nature, and he's certainly gone to some trouble to make it look authentic._

The actor—and at this point Darcy didn't think he could be anything else—sported a full head of hair styled in an unusual fashion for a player, but Darcy admitted that it gave him a majesty worthy of the elder parts of the Bard's dramatic tales. The stranger's hair was dark with gray at the temples and widow's peak. Long, it flowed over his shoulders, and twin braids at the ears lent him a rather dashing air of mystery and the exotic. The bearded face was that of a man past his prime, yet its austere strength would argue that assertion. Darcy made another note to send for town for tickets.

"I ask again," he said. "Are you injured? Do you require assistance?" The stranger hoisted a large and strangely designed sword and swung the point in his direction.

"Who are you?" he asked with a scowl, seemingly not at all impressed by the tall, refined gentleman standing before him. Darcy's lips quirked at his imperious manner. Perhaps he was practicing a part or covering his embarrassment with a dramatic performance, but Darcy decided to heed Elizabeth's admonition to be civil to those not of his circle and responded in kind.

"I am Fitzwilliam Darcy," he said with an old-fashioned, sweeping bow, "master of Pemberley and the lands hereabout. To whom do I have the honor of addressing?" The stranger cocked his head and looked around, surveying the woods and glimpses of vistas beyond with sharp eyes. He missed no detail, and after scanning his surroundings, he stared at Darcy, taking in his dress with what looked like suspicion.

"You are dressed strangely," he said at last, "and I am not familiar with this road. I must have taken a wrong turn." Sheathing his sword, he nodded, indicating his superior status. Darcy withheld a grin. He would certainly have this actor's name and attend his next performance, perhaps even support his company. This fellow was mesmerizing to watch and had a wonderfully rich voice. "I am Thorin Oakenshield, _King_ of Erebor."

Darcy frowned, not familiar with the production. It wasn't one of Shakespeare's at any rate, but he applauded new talent. "Erebor? I'm not familiar with the play. Is it a new production? _Thorin_. From Thor? Perhaps a translation of a Nordic play? I must say though that your seamstresses have outdone themselves, and your stage makeup is superb. Usually it is applied too thick, thereby turning a drama into a farce. My compliments to your company." After staring at him like he had gone daft, this _Thorin_ shook his head.

"I do not understand your questions, Fitzwilliam Darcy, or your words, but I demand you direct me to the Old Forest Road. My company and kinsmen are to meet me at Bree."

"I would, of course, Master Thorin," Darcy said with barely concealed amusement. The man arched a heavy brow. "Master Oakenshield." The brow rose higher. "My lord." At that the King of Erebor nodded and motioned for him to continue. Darcy was excessively diverted and determined to commit all to memory to amuse Georgiana and his cousin, Richard, with this delicious anecdote. "However, I am not familiar with that road. If you would be so good as to furnish me with directions, I will gladly set you on the path. Could the road run through _Lambton_ perhaps?" The name did not seem to register, but in any case, there was no help he could offer until his carriage was repaired. "I am on my way to retrieve help from my groomsman. I broke a wheel about a mile back. You are welcome to accompany me, or you may wait until I return."

The man looked to and fro but could not get his bearings and started down the rise. Darcy heard his unhappy mumbling on his way down but lost sight of him when he reached the ground. The bushes were not that high, perhaps around four and a half feet tall, and Darcy looked all about him before this Thorin appeared in front of him. Looking down, the master of Pemberley was astonished. This self-described King of Erebor was almost as wide as a man but the height of a dwarf, yet he did not have the disproportionate head and overly thick limbs of a dwarf. Darcy felt an unpleasant prickling on the nape of his neck, and the man or dwarf, rather, huffed at his frank amazement.

"I take it you've never seen a dwarf before, Master Darcy," he said. His brow arched again only this time with disdain. "You must not have ventured far beyond your lands or be well-educated if you're unaware of my people. I never expected Fornost to have terrain such as this," and he nodded at the well-kept meadows and woods, "but _I_ am not ignorant of who lives in Middle-earth."

" _Middle_ -earth? A _race_ of dwarves?" More than that Darcy wouldn't say, and he schooled his face to impassivity after seeing Thorin's nostrils flare. After a derisive snort in Darcy's direction, the play-acting king looked up and around, still trying to locate helpful landmarks, and Darcy took the opportunity to scrutinize him more closely. He observed that his costume looked too fine and expensive for any production he had ever seen. Glancing at his scabbard, he saw that it was had wear that could only have come from actual use. The sword pommel and crosspiece were also well-worn with telltale nicks and scratches. More importantly, Darcy could tell even from where he stood that both sword and scabbard were made of forged steel. Another look at Thorin's clothes and the way he wore them convinced Darcy that he wore them often if not as his usual attire. This day's adventure was taking a bizarre turn.

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 **Thanks for reading! Reviews are welcome!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wasn't that fun? Two of my favorite male leads meeting up! On second edit I made a few changes to Chapter 1 to make it more plausible. Ha! As if a story like this could _ever_ be! Anyway, now Thorin's heading back home from the Blue Mountains and is south of Fornost and not whooshed away from Erebor after all. This would put him near enough to lands that could better resemble the woods of Pemberley. I figured that if Thorin had popped out of thin air from Erebor, he'd be a lot more upset. I know I would!**

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 **Chapter 2**

Man and dwarf stared at one another, taking each other's measure. Darcy instinctively knew that this man was someone to reckon with and reconsidered whether he was an actor. He possessed almost too much charisma for his size, and even though he didn't come up to Darcy's shoulder, he projected enormous presence. Surely, if he was an actor, he would be famous or well-known at least, but Darcy had heard nothing of the troupe in Lambton save its presence. This Thorin did mention a company though, but he betrayed no artifice, no stagecraft, no persona. If he was playing a part he had buried himself in it up to the hilt of his broadsword, an expertly crafted piece of steel of which Darcy had never seen the like. It's oddly geometric styling and wide blade would take considerable strength to wield, but this dwarf had pulled it out and cut his holly bushes in half like butter.

Another glance revealed a jeweled dagger in its sheath. Darcy had seen enough real gems to recognize paste, and the cut and sparkle of these dazzled the eye, but despite their appearance, they couldn't be real. If they were, they'd be worth a fortune, something far outside any actor's income. No wealthy lord or tradesman he knew of would compromise himself by acting in the theater and, furthermore, he knew of no wealthy lord or tradesman so short.

Darcy ran through reasonable possibilities to explain the supposed king's presence. None came to mind other than his appearance after Darcy had appealed to Providence, but that was a flight of fancy no rational mind could accept. Besides, he hardly looked the part of guardian angel. In fact, his fierce appearance and perpetual glower suggested quite the opposite. Was he in a fever then? No, he felt as whole as ever. Had his anguish over Elizabeth driven him mad? Here Fitzwilliam Alexander Darcy paused to consider. He hadn't been himself, not since his ill-fated proposal some weeks ago.

 _Have I gone mad?_

The thought was frightening, but he had heard that if one questioned one's sanity then in all likelihood one was sane. Circular logic perhaps, but he would cling to it. Besides, he didn't think a richly dressed and armored dwarf from the Middle Ages would be his choice if he were insane.

 _I would conjure Elizabeth, and she would love me as I do her._

If Darcy was sane, then it stood to reason that this Thorin was real, though possibly not an actor. Who was this man then? None of the pieces fit. He wondered if Thorin was thinking the same thing because he kept staring at Darcy and his clothes as if trying to place him.

"Not from Gondor," the dwarf muttered. "Too fine for Rohan or a ranger." He leaned to one side to examine Darcy's cream waistcoat. "No weapons either."

"I wouldn't say that, my lord," Darcy said, and he pulled out one of his pistols from behind his back under his coat. "I am well-prepared for anyone untoward. We haven't had poachers here for some time, but it's prudent to be prepared." Thorin snorted and eyed it with contempt.

"Too small for a club, Fitzwilliam Darcy," he said with a dismissive wave of his fingers, "and unbalanced as a throwing stick. Hardly a thing to stop robbers." He yanked out his gleaming dagger. "This is better for both close range and distance if quickness be the aim." Chuckling at his pun, he twirled the knife in his fingers and hefted its weight before handing it to Darcy. He stepped back then and folded his arms with a smug smile, nodding at Darcy to inspect his weapon that was as beautiful as a piece of jewelry.

To say that the Master of Pemberley was surprised was an understatement, but he kept his expression neutral. The hilt had a large emerald-like jewel on the crosspiece and a flawless crystal the color of sapphire and the size of a large grape set into the pommel. Crystals that flashed like diamonds tipped the crosspiece. The length of the blade held a ripped pattern, evidence of folded steel, and angular rune-like letters reached almost to the tip of the blade. This was no toy nor prop.

"This is Deathless," Thorin said while patting the scabbard of his sword, "and the dagger is Vengeance."

"Aptly named."

"Aye, though it is too pretty for my taste, but it was a gift, and the blade is as fine as any of dwarven make."

"I see. A gift from whom?"

"Merchants. They gifted this to me after they reestablished themselves at Erebor. A small token of appreciation."

"Small?" Darcy looked at the jewels and held them up to the light. They were flawless.

"Pretty, aye, but it came in handy enough when we crossed paths with a band of thieves. They came upon our campground two nights past."

"Where are they now?"

"Dead."

With that answer, Darcy reached the limit of his patience. Intriguing though this event was, he couldn't play along any longer without answers, without the truth. He would be cordial and even helpful if necessary, but something was afoot, and he needed to determine whether this man or anything related to him could pose a threat. Georgiana was home and perhaps even riding through the grounds nearby. Drawing himself up to his full height, he handed the dagger back with a nod and cocked his pistol.

"Your weapons are indeed formidable," he said evenly, "but I am not defenseless. Allow me to demonstrate." Perhaps this Thorin needed to see that he was willing to use force if necessary. Darcy knew that some considered gentlemen a pampered lot only too happy to let others work their estates while they sat back and sipped their port, but he wouldn't— _couldn't_ —show himself weak. Perhaps there was a mannerly way to show force. He could heed Elizabeth's reproofs yet show himself not a fool while earning some respect from the dwarf whose mocking posture needed correction.

"Observe, if you please." He took aim at a thin sapling and fired through the trunk. The tree collapsed in half, and he turned to see Thorin standing thunderstruck. He looked from the tree to the pistol and back again.

"What _is_ that weapon _?_ " Thorin turn to stare open-mouthed at the smoking gun, and Darcy felt all the satisfaction of one-upmanship, although he did his best to remain respectful. His point had been made. He did not, however, account for Thorin's response. The dwarf grabbed the gun and looked down its barrel before sniffing the residue. He fingered the trigger and felt the weight of the pistol in his hand. Yanking on the hammer and mimicking Darcy's actions, Thorin dissected its workings while mumbling something about "flash-fire." Darcy pulled out his other pistol as security and waved it as a warning. Thorin handed over its mate but grudgingly. "How does it work? I will pay handsomely for a supply."

Darcy took a deep breath. It was time or past time, rather.

"Before I answer you, I want to know who you are, why you're dressed like that, why you're carrying _outlandish_ weapons, and what you're doing on _my_ property." In answer, the dwarf twisted his neck and let out a low growl. Darcy was not amused and widened his stance.

"If you were less _ignorant_ , Fitzwilliam Darcy," Thorin returned with obvious frustration, "you would _know_ who I am, and I would not _need_ to explain." He tapped his belt and the runes on the vambraces on his arms. "I am Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, of the House of Durin, his direct descendant. Any fool can see the royal sigil on my belt and guards." He held out his clenched fist where a large ruby ring winked and glittered on his finger. "Men may not read Khuzdul, but _no_ _one_ mistakes the symbol of the House of _Durin_." He threw his shoulders back and lifted his chin proudly. Darcy was sure that no stage performance could ever match the ferocity of this man's passion. "Not now, not after we reclaimed our homeland. Stories have been told these later years and songs have been sung. _All_ dwarves, men, and elves know of us now." He pounded his chest. "We have reclaimed our rightful place, and our fame has spread to the _farthest_ corners of Middle-earth. Why _you_ have no knowledge is a mystery I do _not_ have time for." Darcy stared astounded before pinching bridge of his nose. He knew he had the upper hand as far as weapons were concerned, but the dwarf certainly had the element of surprise.

"Let me be clear," Darcy said, struggling to keep his calm. Elizabeth's words became a chant in his head, but this situation, he was sure, could not conform to the rules of polite society—not where the safety of his sister and his people were concerned. "I am _not_ ignorant. You are _not_ from here, not from anywhere in the surrounding towns and villages. No one today dresses like someone from 500 years ago, nor carries broadswords and daggers in his belt, _nor_ comes from a _race_ of dwarves. This is England, _not_ Middle-earth. There are no elves here and there never have been. _Anywhere_. Not in the _whole_ of the world. So, _Master_ _Oakenshield_ ," and he held up his hand to forestall Thorin's outrage, "you _will_ tell me who you are and what you're doing on _my_ property. _I_ am the master here, and you _will_ answer me." With that he took position and aimed his loaded pistol.

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 **I am having far, _far_ too much fun with this, but I must leave you shortly to finish another chapter for my Hobbit fanfic Through the Eyes of Another. P&P fans are welcome to read my Thorin fics, but if you head over to Middle-earth let me know! Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Ok, ok, I said I was going to work on my other story-and I am-but this was easier to pop out, and I had a number of ideas I thought I'd forget if I didn't jot them down. As always, I tend to rewrite a bit after I post because I see things differently when my chapters go up on the web site. Something about seeing it in a different font and format brings out errors and what-the-hecks? Anyway, enjoy and please review!**

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 **Chapter 3**

 _Let me be clear," Darcy said, struggling to keep his calm. Elizabeth's words became a chant in his head, but this situation, he was sure, could not conform to the rules of polite society—not where the safety of his sister and his people were concerned. "I am_ not _ignorant. You are_ not _from here, not from anywhere in the surrounding towns and villages. No one today dresses like someone from 500 years ago, nor carries broadswords and daggers in his belt,_ nor _comes from a_ race _of dwarves. This is England, not Middle-earth. There are no elves here and there never have been._ Anywhere _. Not in the_ whole _of the world. So,_ Master Oakenshield _," and he held up his hand to forestall Thorin's outrage, "you_ will _tell me who you are and what you're doing on_ my _property._ I _am the master here, and you_ will _answer me." With that he took position and aimed his loaded pistol_.

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If Darcy thought he'd frightened Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, he widely missed the mark. Thorin's face turned darker than Darcy thought possible. The dwarf king reminded him of a cornered wolf. Baring his teeth and thrusting out his chest, he looked like a warrior king of old or a fierce though miniature Viking raider. His hand twitched on his dagger, and Darcy wondered how fast he was with it. A gun trumped a knife certainly, but he was left with the unmistakable impression that this Thorin Oakenshield had killed many in his time without hesitation. No actor this. No, no actor would face down a man with a cocked pistol. Stranger and stranger, and he again entertained troubling thoughts about his sanity. Furrowing his brow, he flicked his eyes up at the sunny, blue sky, almost daring it to answer this conundrum. However, no portent, no sign was forthcoming. Thorin followed his gaze and startled as though he had just realized something. Tense shoulders dropped, and a look of bewilderment replaced his anger. He stared around at the trees before settling again on Darcy. His bearing changed, and he stood without a hint of unease, not even looking at the gun. He reached for a leather pouch hanging from his belt.

"Keep your hands where I can see them!" Thorin stopped and held up both hands before lifting the plump pouch tied to his belt. Darcy waved the pistol for him to stand down, but Thorin shook his head.

"I have no weapons save what you see." He snorted then and looked himself over. "And two more throwing knives in my boots." Darcy looked lower, saw the tips of steel protruding from his unusual fur and leather-strapped boots, and cursed under his breath. "And the hand ax under my coat." He pulled aside his coat to reveal a small hand ax indeed tucked into his broad belt. "And a knife on my other side." He chuckled and gestured to the pistol in Darcy's hand. "I'm supposing that each pistol fires once. Dwarves are hardy folk. You may shoot your one shot, but I'll kill you before I'm dead."

"Not if I shoot you in the head."

"Not even then," Thorin said, not at all bothered. "I have in my pouch a map." He loosened the strings and pulled it open. Darcy felt unreasonable irritation at his disregard of his pistol and determined to stand his ground. Distracting one's opponent was an old trick.

"You doubt my aim? I assure you I'm a good shot."

Thorin continued as though he hadn't heard. "Perhaps you can show me where your Kingdom of Pemberley is." He looked up again at the trees and frowned. "Though by the Valar I suspect you won't know either."

He showed Darcy a leather and ink map unlike any he had ever seen.

"I came from here," Thorin said with a poke of his thick forefinger. He traced along a route. "From the Blue Mountains through the Shire. Now, here"—and he twirled his finger at a blank spot—"is where it appears I lost my way, but there is no Kingdom of Pemberley there. Nor ever was, I suspect." Darcy perused it with great confusion, although he did not betray it in his demeanor. He was master here, and no stranger, no matter how bizarrely dressed, would shake his confidence while he was on ancestral lands.

"I don't recognize any of this."

"I thought as much."

"This is madness."

"Oh?" Thorin looked affronted, and he scoffed. "Because a dwarf king stands before you? Mad _you_ may be, but I assure you _I_ am not." Darcy said nothing while he thought through what to do. Perhaps it was time to put animosity aside and figure out this strange business.

"You asked for answers, Fitzwilliam Darcy," Thorin said, his arms folding across his broad chest, "but If what you say is true, I've none to give you. I do not recognize these lands. I left the Shire a fortnight ago, a land of rolling hills and farm fields but not so well-tended as these. There are many lands I have not traveled, but I've never heard tell of your Kingdom of Pemberley. There is no record of it, and no one in my long years has ever claimed to be from it. I can only conclude that I am no longer where I was." He peered at Darcy's ears. "You're no elf, so not one of the woodland realms." Darcy raised his brows, and Thorin did not act surprised.

"They are unknown to you as you said?" he asked. Darcy nodded. "Good. I cannot stomach elves for long, so this isn't of their doing, yet a potent magic is upon this." He took a deep breath and faced Darcy squarely.

"I was traveling to Bree to meet up with my kinsmen," he began, "but I woke up to a strange, morning fog. I was alone with my pony tied to a tree while I broke my fast. Afterward I put out my fire, but I had not taken one step before I felt myself falling some distance and found myself entangled in those holly bushes." He pointed to the rise before his eyes bored into Darcy's. "Mind you I did not trip nor stumble. The ground was flat and the trees had yet to fully green." He looked up and swirled his fingers at the summer growth of the maple and oak leaves above. "When I awoke this morning it was early spring." He looked resigned as though an unpleasant but inescapable truth had been revealed. "Perhaps this is the work of Gandalf or perhaps Mahal or one of the Valar has seen fit to do this, but it appears that since you know where you are and I do not, I am not in Middle-earth anymore." Darcy shook his head, unwilling to be taken in on words alone.

"What proof do you have that you are who you say you are? Forgive me for being skeptical, but I've never seen anyone like you before in my life." Thorin smiled grimly.

"I owe you no proof, Fitzwilliam Darcy, but perhaps this will convince you." He pulled out a tube and carefully tugged out a scroll. Darcy wondered how much more the dwarf carried on him. There appeared to be a great deal under his heavy coat. "This is a trade agreement with the hobbits of the Shire for pipe weed. It's written in Westron." He held it out, and Darcy unrolled it. It was indeed a contract in flowing script outlining a trade agreement bartering pipeweed for tools and farming implements. At the bottom in were small signatures of various strange-sounding names capped by the large and bold signature of Thorin Oakenshield. He looked to Darcy expectantly but huffed when he didn't get the response he was looking for.

"Perhaps these then, aye?" and he reached further along his belt to pull out another pouch but smaller.

"How much are you carrying on your person?" Darcy asked, more and more surprised by Thorin's resourcefulness.

"No more than usual while traveling," he replied, and after he looked around to make sure no one was watching him, he open his small pouch. Coins, _solid_ _gold_ coins as well as silver and copper coins poured out into his heavy hand. "Surely you know what these are? Do people of your realm carry these?" Darcy was flabbergasted by the gold coins that had the image of a large mountain stamped on one side and more strange runes on the other.

"Not like these," Darcy muttered, stunned by the wealth of heavy gold Thorin held in his hand.

"You are convinced then?"

"I'm convinced you're no actor at least."

"Actor?" Thorin stepped back aghast. Opening his pouch hastily, he dumped the coins in and yanked the leather tie tight before pacing back and forth, swelling with every puffing breath. Wheeling on Darcy finally, he stabbed his finger at his chest. "You thought me a _clown?_ " A low growl sounded in his throat. Darcy tensed before deciding that their stand off was fruitless. They could go back and forth all day in this manner, and he needed to be on his way. He grimaced at how far he'd strayed from Elizabeth's reproofs. He certainly wasn't behaving in a gentleman-like manner and stayed him with his hand.

"I meant no disrespect," he said in a quiet yet commanding tone of voice. Drawing himself up, he bowed slightly, and Thorin's ire faded. The two stared at each other, equally at a loss until Thorin turned on his heel and carefully made his way back up the rise.

"It's muddy here," he said, pointing to area around the holly bushes, "as is the surrounding area."

"Yes, we've had a number of storms in recent weeks." Darcy wondered why he was following that train of thought until he saw Thorin walk his finger along where he had come from. He'd been so surprised by Thorin's sudden appearance that he didn't wonder how he'd gotten there. Ah. Careful not to mar the existing tracks, he followed Thorin up the rise where the dwarf stood triumphant.

"No tracks anywhere except the ones in the bushes and down the rise," Thorin said. Darcy needed no explanation. Thorin Oakenshield did not walk into Pemberley. There were no boot prints anywhere in the soft mud except his own coming down the rise. He did not walk, he fell. Darcy tucked his pistol in his trousers.

"Until I have evidence otherwise," he said with a slow nod, "I will believe you. So, my lord, what happens now? How do you return to where you belong?"

At that, Thorin turned thoughtful and stroked his beard. He looked from the holly bushes to Darcy and then to the trees. "Mahal does nothing without a purpose."

"Mahal?"

"Our maker."

"I see."

"You know nothing of him?"

"No."

"Nor the Valar? Aule? Yavanna?"

"No, and I daresay no one does. You are indeed in another world, my lord. Welcome to Pemberley."

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 **Now begins their journey! I hope I can make it a fun one for you all. Please review! Reviews encourage creative juices!**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm jogging back and forth between stories, but I posted a chapter for my other, so back to our friends. I should say that this isn't going to be a very long story. I had at first intended it to be one of my short parodies, but I had too much respect for both characters to do that to them since they are meeting for the first time. (I do have parodies of Thorin and the company, but that's a different universe.) I apologize for more exposition, but they are walking and talking after all, and they need to do that before meeting with some trouble. Enjoy and please review!**

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Darcy did not consider himself a spiritual man. He was a Christian, of course, a good Anglican, and he went to church every Sunday, made sure the chapel on his grounds remained in good order, and that the parson wanted for nothing. He tended to estate affairs with proper diligence and was considered by all a fair and generous landlord. He loved his family and was good to his friends. Beyond that, he supported various charities, some that no one knew of. In keeping with the Lord's teachings, he would not make his charitable giving public to seek the praise of men. All in all he espoused a practical Christianity, and if he had to clear his throat several times during a particularly fine performance of Handel's _Messiah_ , he was in good company with the rest of the ton. Nothing to be ashamed of there. In fact, until he met Elizabeth Bennet, he was quite pleased with his life of order and daily righteousness, and it wasn't until her fiery rejection that he realized his pride hadn't been under good regulation after all. She had humbled him, and the process was by no means complete, but still, it was an earthly scourging and one that he understood. To him, spiritual matters were like the gears of a watch, a beautiful synchronicity of precision, balance, purpose, and function designed by a master. An apt metaphor to his logical mind and rather good sense.

Mystics and mystical matters had no place in his daily routine or personal study. He had always waved away conversations on ethereal topics such as the workings of angels and the Holy Spirit. After giving them their respectful due as creatures of God's design and aspects of Himself, he thought no more on them and quickly dismissed any conversation headed in such directions.

"How can we know such things, Bingley?" he had asked once at Netherfield after his exuberant friend had given an account of a book he was reading. "We can discuss and postulate all evening and come no closer to understanding anything concrete, anything practical." Of course, Bingley had laughed and chided him for lacking imagination.

"Perhaps angels are listening in on this very conversation, Darcy! Think on that, old chap." Darcy countered that God would not detain them from more important business for something as trivial as their conversation.

He had accepted Thorin's identity because he didn't have any evidence to the contrary, and he needed to move forward. Besides, Thorin Oakenshield was someone one didn't want as an adversary. He was a soldier, no, warrior in truth. He could see it his eyes, those large, blue eyes that constantly evaluated and assessed. Darcy thought deeper about the matter of him appearing suddenly on his property and replayed his earlier idle thoughts. His mother used to read to him every night, and she always included a story from the old family Bible. He remembered the story of Satan being cast down from Heaven. Thrown from heaven to land on earth. But that had happened before time was time. He looked Thorin over again. If he _was_ one of Satan's minions, he wouldn't appear as a dwarf. At least not likely. No. Most unlikely, and he _certainly_ wouldn't be lost—at least not in the physical sense.

He reviewed other his thoughts about a guardian angel. Artistic license aside, he knew from mother's readings that angels weren't meek creatures, nor did they wear nightgowns. In fact, people often fell to their knees in fear. A cherub then? Darcy never believed that any angel would choose to appear as an overfed, naked toddler. Absurd, maudlin posh. But a smaller, heavily armed creature radiating power and authority? Could it be? Mmm. No, for the same reason that angels under God's direction would likewise know where they were and what they were doing. Unless Darcy was being tested. Perhaps like the story of Abraham entertaining strangers who were angels in disguise? Was the Lord testing him to see if he had truly repented of his pride? Possibly. Then again Thorin knew nothing about God Almighty and seemed to have a pantheon of his own.

All the same though there was something old, something ancient about Thorin that gave Darcy the slightest glimpse into a shrouded past, but any notion that he had sprung from Celtic or Norse lore was a door Darcy wouldn't open. Starting to get a headache, Darcy decided to work with what he knew and forgo speculation until more information presented itself.

"Will you come with me to my house, my lord?" he asked, gesturing down the road. "It's about a mile off, and I'd be glad if you'd take …." He stopped there. Somehow tea didn't seem appropriate. "… have a drink with me? Also, you must be hungry." Thorin looked up at him from under his lashes. He missed nothing.

"What were you going to say?" he asked with his fists on his hips. Darcy sighed internally and braced himself.

"I was asking if you'd take tea with me but then thought you might like something stronger." He looked down to see Thorin's inscrutable expression and wondered what he was thinking. He didn't have to wait long.

"Halflings enjoy their tea," he said evenly, "but I've never taken to it. A fine red wine if you have it or ale if you don't." Darcy was surprised when a twinkle appeared in those discerning blue eyes. "You need not fear of offending me every minute, Master Darcy. I'm not such a brute to spurn generosity when it's offered. You've treated me fairly for all your surprise, and I thank you."

"You're very welcome, and call me Darcy, my lord." He waited for Thorin's reply and was further astonished by the small smile he saw hiding under his mustache.

"And you may call me, "my lord." Darcy's mouth dropped open and Thorin caught him with the merest upturn of his lips. Joining in, Darcy made a slow, clean bow from the waist.

"My Lord King Thorin Oakenshield." Thorin responded with a regal dip of the head. It was a natural, unstudied response even in jest.

"Thorin will do."

With the air between them cleared for the moment, they started down the road on equal footing. Darcy had thought that Thorin would be angered at being stranded in another world, but while the king was thoughtful, he no longer appeared unduly distressed. Darcy knew he wouldn't be so easy if their situations were reversed.

"I must say that you're taking this better than I would be," Darcy said with a sidelong glance. Thorin nodded and shrugged.

"I am uneasy, to be sure, and concerned about my kin. But I have come to no harm, and I trust that Mahal has his reasons; that is, unless you summoned me here?" He stopped and turned to Darcy. His brow furrowed. "Are you a wizard?" Darcy was taken aback at the novel question.

"No. We don't have them here." Darcy's left eye twitched, and Thorin's eyes narrowed. Fitzwilliam Darcy's complicated walk home was becoming more complicated by the minute. Thorin Oakenshield wasn't the kind to let anything go. By the time they reached Pemberley, he might well know everything Darcy wanted to hide.

"But?"

"I am no wizard."

"You didn't answer my first question. You hesitated. I'll have the truth now." He stopped and folded his arms across his chest. Darcy surmised that they could stand there all day and night, and Thorin wouldn't budge an inch until he had his answer. "You could have ridden one of your horses to your keep, yet you chose to walk. Why?" Damn his perceptiveness!

"My thoughts were troubled, and I wanted time to think."

"What thoughts?"

Darcy withheld all the but the slightest wince, and Thorin nodded as though the answer was in front of him.

"What thoughts?" Darcy took a deep breath. Richard knew of his failure and humiliation, and if Thorin was Providence's response to his troubles—however unlikely—would it help to keep them from him?

"I am troubled over a relationship with a woman I wanted to marry." Flushing with embarrassment over sharing his private business, he glared at Thorin, daring him to scorn his misfortune, but the king said not a word and simply stared at him with a blank expression.

"And you called out to your gods for guidance?"

"You might say that." Darcy braced himself for the uproarious laughter sure to come, but it didn't. Quite to his surprise, he observed that Thorin seemed deep in thought himself, and he waited.

"To feel love for another is a gift indeed," Thorin said finally without a trace of contempt. "Women are scarce in our race, and it is a blessing to find one to love."

"Do you have a wife and family?" Darcy asked with a glimmer of hope.

"Nay. I have never found such, but I have a sister, Dis, and her sons, Fili and Kili." One glance was enough to see Thorin's true love and pride for his family. He understood that if nothing else.

"I have a sister. Her name is Georgiana."

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 **Well, I hope this didn't disappoint, but please review regardless!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Oh, my goodness, it's been ages! I'm sorry, but I have stories at The Hobbit book site that needed attention. I will finish this though! Anyway, enjoy and please review!**

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 _"To feel love for another is a gift indeed," Thorin said finally without a trace of contempt. "Women are scarce in our race, and it is a blessing to find one to love."_

 _"Do you have a wife and family?" Darcy asked with a glimmer of hope._

 _"Nay. I have never found such, but I have a sister, Dis, and her sons, Fili and Kili. Once glance was enough to see Thorin's true love and pride for his family. He understood that if nothing else."_

 _"I have a sister. Her name is Georgiana."_

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"Tell me of her," Thorin said. The road was wide and well-maintained, the sky was dotted with clouds shot through with gold, and tall pink and yellow wildflowers swayed in the light breeze. As they walked, the pair fell into a companionable rhythm. Darcy scrutinized the dwarf king, weighing his possible motives for wanting to know more of Georgiana, but since he had introduced the topic, he could not fault Thorin for the question.

"She's my junior by some years, and since our parents are deceased, I have guardianship of her. She has been a fine mistress of Pemberley and makes regular visits to our tenant farmers and such. She has become a fine horsewoman and travels to the village and back when there's a need."

"She is young then. My sister came of age before our parents died," Thorin replied. "Is your sister considered fair by men's reckoning?"

"Very fair," Darcy said with a fond smile. "Very beautiful, although she is as blond as I am dark." He paused then, rethought the question, and looked sidelong at Thorin, his scruples always alert where his sister was concerned. "Are you seeking an introduction, my lord?" he said with a decided edge. A moment later, he heartily regretted asking as Thorin responded with unrestrained mirth at his expense. Darcy stopped and crossed his arms over his chest while he waited with pressed lips. He was chagrined at Thorin's response but equally so in that he did not readily answer the question. His scowl deepened, but the dwarf king was in no hurry to stem his amusement. Finally waving off Darcy's mounting annoyance, Thorin reached into yet another pocket in his coat and pulled out a wadded handkerchief with unexpectedly delicate embroidery scalloping the edges. Darcy raised a brow when it made its incongruous appearance. Certainly there was a story in that. An elaborate curling monogram of "BB" took pride of place in one corner. Thorin dabbed his merry eyes and wiped his nose before stuffing it back.

"Were you in my world, you never would have suspected such, Fitzwilliam Darcy," he said with a roguish smirk before he looked down to rummage through his coat and resettle its contents. "Firstly, we wed our own kind, although at 200 years old, I do not believe that I am destined to find my One. Secondly, I would not woo a child under any circumstances." Darcy's arms and irritation dropped at his words. Two- _hundred_ years old? Surely he had misheard. Such a thing belonged to mythic lore or the Old Testament, and his astonishment grew as Thorin kept about his business without a trace of guile. He patted his coin pouch and then tied the string tighter around his wide belt. Stopping suddenly, he took note of Darcy's silence, and his hand flew to the pommel of his sword while he checked for dangers around their perimeter before turning back.

"Aye? Is something amiss?"

"I beg your pardon." Darcy said while looking him up and down. Thorin took a step back, confused by Darcy's peculiar intensity.

"I am not aware that you have given offense, but pardon is freely granted." Darcy shook his head and blinked before trying again.

"You said that you are _200_ _years_ _old_." Thorin shrugged and repositioned yet another knife on his person.

"I did, aye. If I do not die in battle I may even live another 50 or so before Mahal sees fit to call me to the halls of my fathers. This is common among my people." He observed and then nodded his head at Darcy's thunderstruck expression. "I see you have no knowledge of that here," he said. "Elves are even longer-lived and are immortal, although they can die in battle or fade from grief. 'Tis the way of my world." He waved it off as though it was of no matter.

Darcy fought to maintain his composure while he absorbed Thorin's fantastical words. Why if he had lived for 250 years he might have discussed the mysteries of science with Sir Isaac Newton or philosophy with John Locke. He would have known the mighty reign of Queen Elizabeth and visited the studio of the towering Rembrandt in what was then the Dutch Republic. The enormity of Thorin's comments staggered him, but he tried nonetheless for something approaching nonchalance. He failed miserably despite his attempt to adopt the face he presented at dreaded social gatherings where marriageable daughters vied for his attention—and purse. Thorin's gentle scoff signaled that Darcy was found wanting. Even so, the dwarf king returned to the previous subject, seemingly as a means to give his flabbergasted companion time to recover his equanimity.

"It is unusual for our females to travel beyond our mountain fortress, but I know that is not so with your kind in my world. So, since she travels in and beyond the confines of your kingdom, what is her weapon of choice?"

"I beg your pardon." Thorin shook his head at Darcy's continued befuddlement and gestured for them to continue down the road.

"No need. So dagger or short sword?" Thorin prodded as they walked, and he flicked his fingers at Darcy's belt where one of his pistols was tucked into his waistband. "Or one of those pistols as you call them."

Darcy imagined Georgiana holding a pistol in her soft, white hands, shooting targets with a steely glint in her eye, but he could not hold the image for more than a moment. History told of Amazons and the warrior women of Sparta, but gently bred women of his era would be horrified at the prospect.

Thorin looked askance. "I prefer the broadsword. Fili claims the twin knives, and Kili wields the bow but also fights with the short sword. My kinsman, Dwalin, is nigh unstoppable with the heavy ax, and Dis trained our women in the throwing axes before her death." Once again, Thorin spoke with ease on the topic and undeniable pleasure, which made Darcy uneasy. Gentlemen fencing or even boxing for the more daring was more than acceptable, but Thorin looked like he would enjoy a street fight with ruffians. In fact, Darcy mused, he would probably search out such an unsavory situation for weapons practice, and God have mercy on his opponents.

"My sister wields no weapon. She lives a sheltered life and has no need of such." Darcy knew of several ladies who enjoyed archery but only as a social pastime and to give men an opportunity to admire their figures. Aghast, Thorin stopped in the middle of the road.

"How can she protect herself against fell beasts or treacherous men then?"

"I protect her."

"You cannot be everywhere every minute, Fitzwilliam Darcy."

"My sister generally doesn't venture out without a maid, although she will visit our tenants on her own. Here we prize a woman's innocence as a great virtue. Georgiana is sweet-tempered and gentle. There is no need for her to concern herself with affairs of the world. That is the province of men."

Thorin snorted, his face the picture of disdain.

"You speak of ignorance not innocence, Fitzwilliam Darcy, which is _never_ a virtue. Do you wish for your womenfolk to be weak and needy then? Is this the way of your people? Our women learn weaponry from childhood. Evil doesn't bow to innocence, Fitzwilliam Darcy. It only destroys. So your sister ventures out on your lands? Suppose she meets your poachers? What then? Will her rank protect her against thieves who have no honor? I do not think it likely. She will be caught unaware of the danger and with no means to protect herself. Certainly her maid will have no training if she does not."

Darcy worked his jaw as he struggled to master his temper. How dare this _supposed_ dwarf king question his decisions concerning Georgiana? What gave him the right to put forth such opinions? He was about challenge Thorin's assertions when Ramsgate and that horrible scene at the waterfront intruded on his outrage. His face fell. Georgiana needed no dagger against Wickham—although the image brought him a flush of pleasure— _but_ if she had not been so sheltered, she would not have been taken in by him. He felt the familiar burn of shame course through him. Thorin watched with his head cocked to one side.

"What of your woman? Is she of the same temper?""

Darcy could not help but smile though recent events were painful. "No, not at all. She is much more aware of society and its machinations. She has the courage and quick presence of mind to defend herself and give a clever set down whenever one is required."

 _And they have been required lately to my cost._

He looked down to see Thorin studying him. It was too late to hide the roiling emotions that rose at the mere mention of Elizabeth, but he hoped that Thorin possessed enough discretion to leave his dignity intact. He was not so fortunate.

"So you wish your sister to be docile and ignorant," Thorin began with unnerving discernment, "yet you prize a woman who is not. You are a man of contradictions, Fitzwilliam Darcy."

 _So it would seem._

Thorin opened his mouth to say more when he threw up his head and sniffed at the wind. His head swiveled to a dense stand of trees some distance from the road. Slowly, he pulled out his dagger and assumed a fighting stance.

"There are men in those trees yonder," he said. Darcy followed his gaze but smelled and heard nothing. His opened his mouth to contradict Thorin, but his growing respect for the dwarf king and his daunting array of weapons stayed him.

"Why do you think so?" he asked in a low voice. Thorin moved in front and put out his hand as if to protect him.

"I can smell them. The rankness of their clothes, and the smell of spirits. I do not think they are of your people," he said with a wave of his forefinger at Darcy's patterned, silk waistcoat. "You would not have your sister visit such as them." Darcy nodded. He was correct, and so the poachers have returned. He berated himself for lowering his guard. Thorin was correct and not only for his sister's sake. He did have his pistol though and Thorin, who was clearly an experienced warrior.

 _Even though he barely reaches my chest, I would not want him as an adversary._

"What do you propose, Thorin?" he asked, interested in how a medieval-like warrior would resolve the situation.

"First," Thorin began as though deferring to him was his due, "we must head downwind of them, so they do not catch our scent." Darcy did not think poachers of his time clever or sober enough notice any scent, but he nodded all the same.

"And then?"

"And then we slip in behind them and find out how many are there." Darcy nodded again. That was a sound strategy.

"And then we will take them unawares." Darcy hesitated, unsure of what "take them unawares" entailed. He did not have to wait long.

"After we behead them," Thorin continued, "we will spit their heads on pikes and hang their bodies from the trees. It will discourage others." He looked up to see Darcy staring at him, his eyes wide and unblinking. "Why do you look so? Do you have no punishment for those without honor who would enter your lands to thieve and threaten your kin?" Suppressing his irritation, Darcy cleared his throat and kept his voice level.

"We do indeed, but killing men without a trial, stringing up their headless bodies, and spitting their heads on pikes in view full of tenants and villagers is unconscionable. In our society, we would imprison them or have them deported, never to return."

"You never take their lives for their crimes?"

"We would under specific circumstances. Poaching is punishable by hanging if it be for profit rather than for feeding one's family, but I would prefer not to stage a ghoulish scene that my sister and other gentlefolk may happen upon."

Thorin frowned but acquiesced. "This is your kingdom, so I will hear your plan."

"Do you have any rope on you?" Darcy asked. Thorin nodded. "This then is what we are going to do," and the Lord of Pemberley outlined his strategy with the King of Erebor, who smiled with wolfish satisfaction.

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 **Well, this feels good to get out. I don't know who is still interested or if first-time readers will take a risk on this, but welcome, one and all.**


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